Chapter 1: The Hot Stranger at the Party
The bass was going to split her skull open.
Raven felt it in her teeth first—that deep, chest-rattling thump that made the ice in her glass tremble and her heartbeat sync up with something primal. The mansion sprawled around her like a fever dream, all glass walls and sharp angles, the kind of place that cost more than her entire future. Outside, the city glittered below like scattered diamonds on black velvet, but inside, everything was neon and sweat and bodies moving without permission.
She was drunk. Properly, stupidly drunk. The kind of drunk where the floor had opinions and her heels kept losing arguments with the Persian rug.
"Another one!" Bree shoved a shot glass into her hand, tequila sloshing over the rim. Her best friend's grin was feral, her dark curls bouncing as she bounced, already moving to the beat even though they'd been dancing for two hours straight.
Raven downed it without thinking. The burn was familiar now, almost comforting. "You're trying to kill me."
"I'm trying to save you." Bree grabbed her hips, spinning her around. "You've been moping for three months. Three. Months. Over a guy who couldn't find your clit with a map and a flashlight."
"Jesus, Bree."
"I'm serious! You need to get laid. Tonight. It's happening."
Raven laughed despite herself, the sound swallowed by the music. Her lacy black dress clung to her like a second skin, damp with sweat, and she could feel the familiar rub of her octopus tattoo against the fabric where the tentacles curled out from the hem. The phoenix across her shoulder blades was probably glowing with heat by now. She'd dressed to be invisible tonight, to blend into the chaos and forget her own name.
Instead, she'd taken four shots in twenty minutes and was now grinding against her best friend in a stranger's living room while a DJ who probably cost more than her rent spun tracks that made her bones vibrate.
"This is insane," she yelled over the music.
"This is living!" Bree yelled back.
Someone passed a joint. Raven took it without hesitation, pulling deep until her lungs burned and the edges of the room went soft and hazy. The chandelier above them—some modern art piece that looked like frozen lightning—seemed to pulse with the beat.
She loved this feeling. The dissolution of self. The way her thoughts scattered like startled birds and everything became color and sound and pure sensation. She didn't have to think about her empty apartment or her dead-end job or the way her mother's voice still echoed in her head, asking when she was going to get her life together.
Here, in this moment, she was nobody. She was just a body in a crowd, moving because movement was the only option.
"Raven!" Bree's voice cut through the fog. "Raven, look."
But she was already spinning, already lost in the rhythm, her hands in the air and her eyes closed. The music had her now. She was gone.
---
The living room bled into the terrace through open glass doors, and the night air hit her like a splash of cold water. Raven stumbled out, heels clicking against marble, and grabbed the railing for balance. Below, the valley spread out in a quilt of lights, million-dollar views for a million-dollar crowd.
She lit another cigarette, though she'd quit six months ago, and watched the smoke curl up into the darkness.
"Fuck," she whispered to no one. "What am I doing?"
The party raged behind her, muffled now, the bass reduced to a heartbeat. She could see Bree through the glass, still dancing, still wild, still so effortlessly alive. Bree, who had dragged her here tonight with promises of distraction and free alcohol. Bree, who had a boyfriend now—Damien, some serious-looking guy with a quiet voice and watchful eyes—who was supposed to meet them here.
Raven hadn't met him yet. She'd heard about him, of course. Bree had been dating him for six months, which was practically a record, and she'd been weirdly cagey about the whole thing. But Raven trusted Bree. Whatever weirdness there was, it was probably just Bree being Bree.
The cigarette burned down to her fingers. She crushed it against the railing and flicked it into the void.
"Raven!" Bree again, her voice brighter now, almost manic. "Raven, get in here!"
She turned, and the world tilted slightly. She was drunker than she'd thought. Or maybe the shot she'd done right before coming out here was finally kicking in.
Through the glass doors, she could see Bree waving frantically, jumping up and down like a golden retriever who'd spotted a squirrel. And beside her—
Raven stopped walking.
The floor might have stopped too. She wasn't sure.
Two men stood with Bree. One was familiar—Damien, she assumed, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, with the kind of quiet presence that made you want to lower your voice. He had his arm around Bree's waist, a small smile on his face, and he looked at her like she was the sun.
But the other one.
Jesus.
He was tall. That was the first thing. Tall and dark, with hair that curled just slightly at the temples, like it was fighting back against being too perfect. His face was all sharp angles and clean lines, cheekbones that could cut glass, a jaw that looked like it had been carved by someone who knew what they were doing. His eyes—even from here, even through the glass and the haze and the strobe lights—she could tell they were blue.
Deep. Cold. The kind of blue that looked like the ocean right before it drowned you.
His body matched the rest of him. Tall frame, broad shoulders, the kind of build that made clothes look expensive even when they weren't. He wore a dark suit like he was born in it, jacket open over a black shirt, no tie. The casualness of a man who didn't need to prove anything.
He didn't smile. Didn't look around the party. Didn't do anything but stand there with his hands in his pockets, observing, like the whole world was a chessboard and he was deciding which pieces to move.
Raven walked through the glass doors like she was in a trance.
She was aware of the music, aware of the bodies around her, aware of Bree's eyes on her face, bright and knowing and—
Oh no.
"Raven!" Bree's voice was pitched too high. "There you are! Come meet—"
"Oh my god you are hot."
The words fell out of her mouth before her brain could catch them. They landed in the space between her and the tall stranger like a grenade, and for three glorious seconds, everything went silent.
Not actually silent. The music still throbbed, the party still thrashed, but inside Raven's skull, everything crashed to a halt.
Oh shit.
The stranger's eyebrows rose. Just slightly. A barely-there shift in his expression that somehow communicated more than a full sentence.
"Oh shit. I just said that out loud." Raven's face was on fire. Her entire body was on fire. She could feel her octopus tattoo burning against her thigh, her phoenix wings blazing across her back. "Don't—don't listen to me. I'm drunk. I'm—" She gestured vaguely at the air. "There were shots. And a joint. And—" She laughed, a strangled sound. "I mean you're hot. That's—that's objectively true. I'm not—I didn't mean—"
Bree started laughing.
Not a giggle. Not a polite chuckle. A full, unhinged cackle that bent her forward at the waist and made her clutch Damien's arm for support.
"Oh my god," Bree wheezed. "Oh my god. Raven. Raven."
"Shut up." Raven's voice was tight with mortification. "Bree, I swear to god—"
"You told me—" Bree couldn't even finish the sentence. "You told me—'I'm not interested in meeting anyone'—'I don't want to be set up'—and then you just—you just—"
"Bree!"
Damien was watching the scene unfold with a kind of polite interest, like someone observing a nature documentary. His expression was mild, controlled, but there was something in his eyes—a glint of amusement that suggested he was enjoying this more than he'd ever admit.
And the stranger.
He still hadn't moved. Still hadn't spoken. He stood there, hands in pockets, watching Raven with those impossible blue eyes, and his face was—
Unreadable.
Not cold, exactly. Not angry. Just...still. Like he was waiting for something.
The laughter around her dimmed as panic set in. Raven was suddenly, acutely aware of exactly how she looked: smeared makeup, tangled hair, a dress that was currently sticking to her body in ways that were probably illegal in several states. She smelled like sweat and tequila and regret.
"I need to go." She said it to no one in particular, already backing away. "I need—I should—"
"Raven." Bree's hand caught her wrist, laughter finally dying into something softer. "Raven, wait."
"No, I—" She shook her head, and the movement made the room spin. "I'm clearly—I need water. Or air. Or to throw myself into the ocean."
"Don't do that." Bree's grip tightened. "Stay. Please. Just—" She glanced at Damien, then at the stranger, something passing between the three of them that Raven couldn't read. "Just stay for a minute."
But Raven was already moving, already pulling free, already heading for the stairs.
"Raven!"
She didn't stop.
Halfway up the winding staircase, she paused, her hand gripping the railing for balance. The party blurred beneath her, a smear of color and sound and strobing light. And there, still standing where she'd left him, the stranger watched her go.
Not smiling. Not laughing. Not anything.
Just watching.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she had the strange, sinking feeling that she'd just done something irreversible. That the trap had been sprung, and she hadn't even seen it.
She fled.
Behind her, Bree started laughing again.
Behind her, the stranger finally moved.
And somewhere in the city below, the lights flickered, like a warning.
The night was just beginning.
Raven made it to the top of the stairs before her legs gave out.
She slumped against the wall, the cool marble pressing into her back through the thin fabric of her dress. The hallway stretched in both directions, dimly lit, dotted with closed doors that led to god knew what. Bedrooms. Bathrooms. Places where people were probably fucking or doing lines or both.
Her head spun.
What the fuck did I just say.
She pressed her palms against her face, feeling the heat radiating off her skin. Her makeup was probably smeared to hell. Her hair was a disaster. And she'd just told a complete stranger—a terrifyingly beautiful stranger—that he was hot. Out loud. In front of Bree and her boyfriend and probably half the party.
"Stupid," she muttered. "So stupid."
She could still see his face. Those blue eyes. The way he'd just... stood there. Watching her like she was something interesting. Something worth observing.
God, she was pathetic.
She pushed off the wall, intending to find a bathroom, splash water on her face, maybe call an Uber and escape this nightmare. But her heels had other plans. They caught on the edge of the rug, and she stumbled, catching herself on a console table that held a vase worth more than her car.
The vase wobbled. She grabbed it. Held her breath.
It settled.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. You're fine. You're totally fine."
She wasn't fine.
She was drunk and high and horny and embarrassed, and the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that she couldn't stop thinking about him. The way his jaw looked. The way his suit fit. The way he'd watched her like he could see right through her, past the bullshit, past the armor, straight into the messy, broken parts she kept hidden.
She leaned against the console table, closed her eyes, and tried to breathe.
The music pulsed through the floor, a steady heartbeat that matched her own. Downstairs, Bree was probably still laughing. Damien was probably still watching with that quiet amusement. And the stranger—
The stranger was probably still standing there, wondering what kind of lunatic had just screamed "you are hot" at him and then fled like a coward.
Raven opened her eyes.
She looked at herself in the ornate mirror above the console table. Her reflection stared back: wide eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted in something that looked like panic. Her dark hair was a mess, tangled around her shoulders. Her dress had ridden up, exposing more thigh than she'd intended. The octopus tattoo curled out from under the hem, its tentacles reaching toward her knee.
She looked like she'd been through a war.
"You're a disaster," she told her reflection.
Her reflection didn't argue.
She stood there for a long moment, just breathing. The tequila was still working its way through her system, making everything soft and hazy. The joint had dulled the edges, but now it was wearing off, leaving behind a strange clarity that made everything feel sharper. More real.
She thought about leaving. Just calling an Uber, slipping out the back, pretending this night never happened. Bree would understand. Bree would probably laugh even harder, but she'd understand.
But something kept her rooted to the spot.
Something about the way he'd looked at her. Not like a piece of meat—she was used to that. Not like a conquest—she was used to that too. But like a puzzle. Like something he was trying to solve.
She didn't know why that mattered.
She didn't know why any of it mattered.
But she found herself turning, found herself walking back toward the stairs. Her heels clicked against the marble, steady now, purposeful. She was still buzzed, still high, still a mess. But she was also curious. And curiosity had always been her downfall.
She stopped where she was. Closed her eyes. Stomped her heels a couple times—childish, ridiculous, but it made her feel better. Then she put her hands to her head.
"What the fuck did I just say," she whispered.
She laughed at herself. A small, breathless sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep. It was absurd. This whole night was absurd. She'd come here to forget her problems, and instead she'd created a new one.
She walked back in.
The party was still raging, still throbbing with bass and heat and bodies moving in sync. She was still giggling to herself, a nervous, giddy sound that she couldn't quite control. People glanced at her as she passed—some curious, some annoyed, some too fucked up to notice.
She ignored them all.
She walked back up to Bree, who was still standing with Damien and his brother. Still laughing, though it had died down to a knowing grin. Still watching Raven with those bright, scheming eyes.
Raven looked at Damien—saw the quiet amusement there, the watchful intelligence. Then she looked at his brother.
The stranger.
The one who'd said nothing.
He was still watching her. Still unreadable. Still standing there like he owned the room and everyone in it.
She took a breath.
"Now that I thoroughly just embarrassed myself," she said, and her voice was steadier than she expected. "Um. Hey. I'm Raven."
She paused. Swallowed.
"And yes, you are very hot."
The words hung in the air.
Bree's grin widened, if that was even possible. Damien's eyebrows rose slightly—a flicker of surprise that was quickly masked. And the stranger—
The stranger's lips curved. Just barely. Just enough to suggest that he was capable of human emotion after all.
"Raven," he repeated, and his voice was low and smooth, like whiskey poured over ice. "I'm Nikolai."
He extended his hand.
She took it.
His grip was firm, warm, and he held on a beat longer than necessary. His eyes never left hers. And in that moment, with the music pounding and the lights strobing and her heart hammering against her ribs, Raven had the strangest feeling that she'd just stepped off a cliff.
She was falling, and she didn't know where she'd land.
"Nice to meet you, Nikolai," she said.
His thumb brushed across her knuckles. Once. Twice.
"The pleasure," he said, "is entirely mine."
---
Bree was practically vibrating with barely contained glee.
"So," she said, sliding up beside Raven with a fresh drink in hand. "That was smooth."
"Shut up."
"I'm serious. You really recovered. The double-down was chef's kiss. 'Yes, you are very hot.'" She mimicked Raven's voice. "'I'm Raven.'" She pressed a hand to her chest. "Iconic."
Raven grabbed the drink from her and took a long sip. It was vodka—straight, no mixer, exactly what she needed. "You knew."
"Knew what?"
"You knew exactly what you were doing. You didn't tell me about him. You just—" She gestured wildly. "You ambushed me."
Bree's smile didn't waver. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You're a monster."
"I'm a good friend."
"You're a monster who thinks she's a good friend."
"Same thing."
Raven wanted to be angry. She really did. But the vodka was warm in her chest and the music was good and Nikolai was still standing a few feet away, talking to Damien in low tones, glancing at her every few seconds with those impossible blue eyes.
She felt like she was on fire.
"What's his deal?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
Bree shrugged. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" Raven took another sip. "He's obviously not just some random guy. He walked in here like he owned the place. Everyone's been staring at him all night."
"That's just because he's hot."
"Bree."
"Fine." Bree leaned closer, her voice dropping. "He's Damien's brother. Older. He runs the family business."
"What family business?"
Bree's eyes glittered. "The kind you don't ask about."
A chill ran down Raven's spine, but it wasn't fear. It was something else. Something electric. "You set me up with a mob boss?"
"I set you up with a very attractive, very single man who happens to have a complicated job." Bree grinned. "You're welcome."
"I'm going to kill you."
"Later. Right now, you're going to dance with him."
"Bree—"
But Bree was already moving, already weaving through the crowd toward Damien, already pulling him toward the dance floor. Damien followed without protest, his hand settling on her waist like it belonged there.
And then Raven was alone.
With Nikolai.
He was still standing by the terrace doors, hands in his pockets, watching her with that unreadable expression. The lights flickered across his face—red, green, blue—making him look like something out of a fever dream.
She should walk away. She should leave. She should call an Uber and go home and forget this night ever happened.
Instead, she walked toward him.
"You're staring," she said.
"I am."
"Why?"
He tilted his head. "Because you're interesting."
"I'm a mess."
"Yes."
"And I just told you you were hot."
"Also yes."
She stopped a few feet away, close enough to smell him—something clean and expensive, like cedar and citrus and something darker underneath. "So why are you still standing here?"
He smiled. Actually smiled. It transformed his face, softened the sharp edges, made him look almost human.
"Because," he said, "I'm interested."
The music shifted, dropping into something slower, deeper, a bass line that vibrated through the floor and up into her bones. The lights dimmed, turning the room into a sea of shadows and moving bodies.
Nikolai extended his hand.
"Dance with me."
It wasn't a question.
She took his hand.
---
He pulled her onto the dance floor, into the crush of bodies and heat and sweat. His hand found her waist, pulling her close, closer than she expected. His other hand caught hers, fingers intertwining.
She could feel every inch of him. His chest against hers. His thigh between her legs. The heat of his body seeping through his clothes.
He moved slowly, deliberately, leading her through the rhythm like he'd done this a thousand times. His hand on her waist was firm, possessive, fingers pressing into the curve of her hip.
"You dance well," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
"I do many things well."
"Confident."
"Honest."
She laughed. It surprised her—a real laugh, not the nervous giggle from before. "Is that supposed to impress me?"
"No." His thumb traced small circles on her hip. "I don't need to impress you."
"No?"
"No." He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear. "I just need you to come home with me."
Her breath caught. "That's bold."
"I'm not a subtle man."
She pulled back, meeting his eyes. The blue was darker now, hungry, stripped of pretense. He wasn't playing games. He wasn't trying to charm her. He was telling her exactly what he wanted.
And god help her, she wanted it too.
"What makes you think I'd say yes?" she asked.
"Because you've been looking at me all night like I'm the only person in this room."
"Maybe I look at everyone like that."
"You don't."
"How do you know?"
He smiled again. That same small, devastating smile. "Because I've been watching you too."
The song shifted again, faster now, but they didn't move. They stayed pressed together, frozen in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by a thousand people and somehow completely alone.
"Your place or mine?" she asked.
"Yours."
"Why?"
He traced his fingers up her spine, slow and deliberate. "Because I want to see where you live. I want to know who you are when you're not pretending."
"I'm not pretending."
"Everyone's pretending."
She should have told him no. She should have walked away. She should have remembered all the reasons this was a terrible idea.
Instead, she said, "I'm not sleeping with you."
"I didn't ask you to."
"You just said—"
"I said I want you to come home with me." His hand cupped her face, fingers cool against her flushed skin. "What happens after that is up to you."
She stared at him. Her heart was racing. Her head was spinning.
"Okay," she said.
The word hung in the air between them.
He smiled. "Okay."
---
They found Bree and Damien by the front door, already wrapping up. Bree's eyes lit up when she saw them together, Raven's hand still caught in Nikolai's.
"Leaving already?" Bree asked, innocent as a snake.
"Don't," Raven warned.
"I didn't say anything!"
"You're thinking it."
"I'm always thinking it. That's the problem." Bree hugged her, squeezing tight. "Text me when you get home."
"I will."
"And use protection."
"Oh my god."
"I'm serious!"
Raven pulled away, laughing despite herself. "Goodnight, Bree."
"Goodnight, future sister-in-law!"
"Jesus Christ."
Nikolai's hand found the small of her back, guiding her toward the door. She could feel him behind her—tall, solid, radiating heat. She could feel his breath on her neck.
The night air hit her like a wave when they stepped outside. Cold, crisp, scented with pine and salt from the ocean below.
His car was waiting—a black SUV with tinted windows and a driver who opened the door without a word.
"You have a driver," she said.
"I have many things."
She looked at him. "Do you always get what you want?"
He met her eyes. "Yes."
"What if I change my mind?"
"Then I'll drive you home myself." He opened the door wider. "But you won't."
She climbed in.
He followed.
The door closed behind them, sealing them in darkness and silence and heat. The car pulled away from the curb, smooth as silk, and Raven stared at the city lights blurring past the window, her heart pounding in her ears.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Nikolai looked at her.
She gave the address.
They rode in silence. His hand found hers in the darkness, fingers entwining, thumb stroking across her knuckles. It wasn't a romantic gesture. It was possessive. Claiming.
She should have pulled away.
She didn't.
---
Her apartment was small and messy and completely inadequate for a man like him.
He didn't seem to notice.
His eyes swept the room once—taking in the books piled on every surface, the plants dying on the windowsill, the poetry manuscripts scattered across her desk—and then he turned back to her.
"You write."
"I try."
"Hmm."
He shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair with casual precision. His eyes never left hers. The black shirt beneath the jacket hugged muscles and made promises.
"Would you like something to drink?" she asked, moving toward the kitchen. "I have... water. And old coffee."
"No."
"Okay."
"Come here."
She turned.
He was standing in the middle of the room, still as a statue. The dim lamplight caught the planes of his face, the curve of his mouth, the hunger in his eyes.
She walked toward him.
He didn't grab her. Didn't rush. Just waited, patient, still.
She stopped inches away.
"This is a mistake," she whispered.
"Probably."
"I don't do this."
"I know."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough."
His hand came up—slow, deliberate—and brushed a strand of hair from her face. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, down her neck, pausing at the hollow of her throat. Her pulse hammered against his palm.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
She didn't.
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It was a claiming—hungry and rough, his mouth slanting over hers like he'd been waiting for this all night, maybe longer. His teeth caught her bottom lip, bit down just enough to make her gasp.
And then his tongue was against hers, hot and insistent, and her hands were fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space between them at all.
He walked her backward, hands on her hips, steering her toward the bedroom. She stumbled over a stack of books, nearly fell. He caught her—of course he caught her—and his laugh was low and dark against her throat.
"Graceful," he murmured.
"I'm drunk."
"You're nervous."
"I'm not—"
He pushed her against the wall.
Her breath left her in a rush. His body covered hers, pinning her there, one thigh sliding between her legs. She could feel the hard length of his cock through his trousers, and her hips bucked instinctively, grinding against him.
He groaned into her ear.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're going to kill me."
"Good."
He kissed her again—harder this time, messier—as his hands found the zipper of her dress and pulled it down in one rough motion. The fabric sagged around her body, and he peeled it away like he was unwrapping something precious.
The dress pooled at her feet.
She stood there in nothing but her underwear—black lace, barely there—and his eyes devoured her.
"Beautiful," he said, and it sounded like a fact, not a compliment.
His hands found her waist, fingers spanning her ribcage, thumbs stroking up her stomach. He lowered his head—kissing her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above the lace.
She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled.
He groaned.
"Bedroom," she managed.
"No."
"What—"
He dropped to his knees.
Her brain short-circuited. "Nikolai—"
"Shh."
One hand hooked into the waistband of her underwear. He pulled them down—slow, deliberate, eyes on hers the whole time. She stepped out of them, and then she was fully naked, spread against the wall like a sacrifice.
He didn't rush.
He started at her ankles, kissing a path upward. Her calves. The backs of her knees. The inside of her thighs.
By the time he reached where she needed him most, she was shaking.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please—"
He spread her with his fingers, and then his mouth was on her cunt.
She cried out, hips bucking off the wall. His hands caught her—one palm flattening on her stomach to hold her still, the other gripping her thigh.
He licked a long, slow path from her entrance to her clit, and she saw stars.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
He worked her like he had all the time in the world. Sucking, licking, circling with his tongue while his fingers teased her entrance. She was dripping—could feel it running down her thighs, hear the wet sounds in the dark.
One finger pushed inside her.
She gasped.
"Relax," he murmured against her. "I'm not done."
Another finger. Then a third.
He stretched her, filled her, crooking his fingers to hit that spot that made her vision blur. His mouth never stopped. His tongue never stopped.
She was going to come.
She was going to—
"Not yet."
He pulled away.
She actually whined. "You bastard—"
He stood, towering over her, mouth slick with her. "You'll come when I tell you to."
She wanted to argue. She wanted to push back. But the look in his eyes—hot and hard and utterly in control—made her weak.
"Okay," she breathed.
"Good girl."
He scooped her up—actually scooped her—and carried her to the bed. Her apartment was small enough that it was only a few steps, but it still felt impossible, like she weighed nothing.
He laid her down on the unmade sheets and stood at the foot of the bed, working his pants open.
She watched, mesmerized, as he pushed them down. His cock sprang free—thick and long, flushed dark with blood—and her mouth went dry.
"Come here," she said.
"No."
"You—"
"You're going to watch." He stroked himself once, slow and deliberate. "Then I'm going to fuck you. And you're going to take it."
She was going to die.
He climbed onto the bed, knee between hers, spreading her open. He ran his cock along her slick folds—teasing, testing—and her hips chased the contact.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
"Ask properly."
She was trembling, burning, ready to beg. "Please, Nikolai, please fuck me, I need it, I need you—"
He pushed inside her.
She screamed.
He was thick—thicker than she'd expected—and the stretch was blinding. He paused, giving her time, his forehead dropping to hers.
"Breathe," he said.
She breathed.
He moved.
The first thrust made her see white. The second made her forget her own name. By the third, she was clinging to him—nails raking down his back, heels digging into his thighs—and he was pounding into her like he was trying to break her apart.
"Fuck, yes, yes—"
"You like that?"
"Yes, god—"
He pulled her up, hands on her hips, angling deeper. The new position made her gasp. He was hitting something—that place inside that made her feel like she was falling.
"Don't stop, don't stop, don't—"
He didn't stop.
He fucked her through one orgasm—felt her cunt clench around him, felt her scream into his shoulder—and then he kept going. Pounding through the sensitivity, pushing past pleasure into something almost painful.
"I can't—"
"You can." He kissed her, rough and messy. "Take it."
She took it.
He flipped her over—strong hands on her hips—and pulled her onto her knees. She barely had time to breathe before he was inside her again, deeper this time, hitting bottom with every stroke.
"This is what you wanted," he said. "This is what you needed."
"Yes—"
"Tell me."
"I needed you to—" She couldn't finish. Couldn't think. He was fucking her like an animal, and she was loving every second.
"Tell me."
"I needed you to fuck me," she sobbed. "I needed you to fill me up, I needed—"
He came with a growl, hips jerking, cock pulsing inside her. She felt it—felt every spurt, every shudder—and the sensation pushed her over the edge again.
They collapsed together, tangled and slick and breathing hard.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Nikolai laughed. Low and rough and warm.
"Good god," he said.
She couldn't help it. She laughed too.
"That's it?" she managed. "Good god?"
He rolled off her, pulling her against his chest. His heartbeat was steady under her ear. "What were you expecting?"
"I don't know. Something profound?"
He stroked her hair. "You're a poet."
"And?"
"And nothing." His hand stilled. "You're already in my head."
She looked up at him.
He wasn't smiling. The look on his face was something else entirely—something raw and open and almost vulnerable.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
He just pulled her closer.
And somewhere in the dark, the city hummed, and the night stretched on, and Raven had the strangest feeling that she'd just opened a door she couldn't close.
She'd asked for a distraction.
She'd gotten a storm.
---
She woke to sunlight and an empty bed.
The sheets beside her were cold. The apartment was quiet. For a moment, she thought she'd dreamed the whole thing—the party, the stranger, the way he'd held her down and fucked her until she couldn't remember her own name.
Then she saw the note.
It was written on the back of one of her poetry manuscripts—a rough draft she'd abandoned weeks ago. His handwriting was sharp and precise, the letters slanted like he was left-handed.
Had to go. Business.
I'll call you.
—N
She stared at it for a long time.
Then she saw the other thing he'd left behind.
A black business card, matte and unmarked, save for a phone number embossed in silver.
No name. No company. Just a number.
She picked it up.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—Bree, probably, demanding details. But Raven didn't answer.
She sat there, naked and sore and covered in marks she didn't remember getting, and she stared at the card in her hand.
She should throw it away.
She should pretend this never happened.
She should go back to her life—her safe, boring, predictable life—and forget about the man with the blue eyes and the hands that knew exactly where to touch.
But she didn't throw it away.
She tucked it into the drawer of her nightstand, next to her grandmother's rosary and a dried flower from a funeral she'd attended years ago.
And she waited.
Three days passed.
Then five.
Then seven.
And on the eighth day—a Tuesday, raining, the kind of day that made her want to stay in bed and write sad poems about mortality—her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
"Hello?"
"Raven."
His voice was just like she remembered—low and smooth and dangerous.
"Nikolai."
A pause.
"Dinner," he said. "Tonight."
It wasn't a question.
She should have said no.
She should have told him to go to hell.
She should have hung up the phone.
Instead, she asked, "What should I wear?"
"A dress." Another pause. "Something that makes it easy to take off."
Her heart stuttered.
"Okay," she said.
"Good."
He hung up.
She sat there, phone in hand, heart pounding, rain streaking down the window.
And she smiled.
---
The doorbell rang at exactly seven.
She opened it.
He stood there in a dark suit and a white shirt, no tie, looking like he'd stepped out of a dream she'd forgotten she'd had.
He didn't say hello. Just looked at her—took her in, slow and deliberate—and something in his eyes flickered.
"You look beautiful," he said.
"Thank you."
He stepped inside. Closed the door. Backed her against it.
"About the other night," he said.
"What about it?"
He kissed her. Fast and hard and hungry.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. "I don't do repeats."
"Neither do I."
"But here I am."
"Here you are."
He smiled. That same small, devastating smile.
"Here I am," he repeated.
And then he picked her up, carried her to the bedroom, and didn't leave until Sunday.
—
The game had started.
And Raven was all in.